


Ghosts in His Eyes

by oliverbrnch



Series: Spencer Reid Whump [2]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Autistic Spencer Reid, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex Work, Sex Worker Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29707176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverbrnch/pseuds/oliverbrnch
Summary: Spencer Reid is not as good of a man as they think he is.
Series: Spencer Reid Whump [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170218
Comments: 22
Kudos: 84





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose you could say this was inspired by tobias-hankel's "Occupational Hazards"? I also guess you could say this was inspired by my frustration with the frequency at which Spencer Reid is infantilized and the religious connotations of the whole 'Tobias Hankel' fiasco? I hope you think it's interesting, anyhow.

Spencer Reid was no angel, no saint. 

There were few things Tobias Hankel got right, but his sins were one of them. 

He was drowning in them. 

There were the easy ones, the understandable ones. He stole from supermarkets, from corner stores, as a child because he and his mother were starving. He pickpocketed tourists he'd never see again on the Vegas strip because he needed the money to keep the electricity on. He had sent his mother away because she would sooner be dead if he hadn't. He was a good boy doing bad things, just trying to survive. 

Spencer Reid was a survivor if nothing else. He wasn't strong, wasn't a terribly good fighter, he wasn't well connected, but he knew how to handle himself on the streets, knew what to look for, what to avoid, who could use a hand, and what a well-placed, hooded glance could get you. 

He had gotten on his knees to pray and, when no one answered, he had gotten on his knees to sell himself to stay alive, to pocket their wrinkled twenties covered in cocaine granules and walk away with a promised meal in his future. He had taken people to the bathrooms of sketchy clubs and let them have their way with him because he needed to forget, needed something in exchange for a little vial of bliss in their pockets. 

He was not a good man, sometimes. 

Spencer would leap to the opportunity to brawl in someone's defense with a sharp right hook and an even sharper tongue, and walk home with a black eye, a bloody nose, bruised knuckles, and feel like he was something holy. He was a sharp man under the cover of darkness, rage swirling in his stomach that he was only too eager to take out on men that blurred together into the vague form of the forty-year-olds who paid him to get on his knees, paid to humiliate and degrade him, that he so detested. Sometimes, he couldn't tell if he hated _them_ or himself more. But, Spencer was no saint under the lamplights, just a being of glinting teeth, dark eyes, and an indomitable biting tongue. 

The team at the BAU were convinced he was a saint, an angel, too good and too sweet. 

They didn't know that, when he looked at the pedophiles, the rapists, the men who targeted prostitutes on street corners, he wasn't Supervisory Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid anymore, he was Lucky Penny from the strip, and Penny was not a boy who could keep his coalescence of anger under wraps. 

If his team noticed his particular distate for those cases, they wouldn't be shocked. He had plenty of valid reasons to loathe those specific unsubs; they were generally awful human beings doing horrible things to people who didn't deserve it, people like them had hurt people he loved, they bore a striking resemblance to William Reid, they hurt little kids that were too achingly similar to little Henry LaMontagne-Jareau and Jack Hotchner, etcetera, etcetera. 

But he wanted to rip them limb from limb, destroy them piece by piece, because he was once a boy with too-thin wrists, too-wide eyes, standing on a street corner asking if johns wanted a date, not because he was 'good,' not because he was empathetic.

Because he had been a boy covered his bruises he felt he deserved, that men's brutality was karmic punishment he'd earned. He had been a boy, too young, too desperate, _too hopeless_ , forced into compromising positions by men twice his age, who held all the power, controlled if he got to eat that night, if his mother would, and held him down by his throat as he sobbed incoherently and begged for mercy, only to be discarded with a crumpled pair of twenties thrown at him.

He had been a boy, drowning in pain, sorrow, left to fend for himself in the face of ravenous wolves, left alone to walk through hell in the vague direction of a brighter future, a boy who had pulled himself out of flames, fire-hardened into steel, and obscured his oozing wounds with tattered angel wings held together by duct tape, a really excellent poker face, and a prayer he didn't really believe in. 

So, under the sunlight, he'd be their angel, he'd blush at the virgin jokes, let his team think he was as good, as kind as them, and go about enacting justice like he was supposed to, and, when the lamplights turned on, he'd seek vengeance with bared, bloody teeth and bruised knuckles, like he'd learned to, and no one would ever know the difference between a good boy doing bad things, and a bad boy doing good ones. 

You could certainly take him off the streets, but never the ghosts out of his eyes, the bruises from his knuckles, the horns from his head. 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer never should have come back to Las Vegas. Their ignorance could not last forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers!   
> So, this was one of the most difficult things to write, for me, at least. Straight metaphor like pt 1 was not going to cut it, so have a kind-of case fic accompaniment. Pt 2 ended up dealing with perspective in a really strange way, but I kind of like how it turned out.   
> I hope everyone else likes how it turned out, too :)   
> And thank you to everyone who has subscribed or kudosed or commented! It means the world to me. If anyone's interested, I do have a tumblr that is also @oliverbrnch; I'd be delighted to have messages dropped into my ask.

Spencer should have known their ignorance wouldn’t last forever.

There were only so many monsters in Las Vegas that the BAU could put away before one of them inevitably ended up being someone who he’d crossed paths with before, let alone one of them he’d allowed to pull him into a grimy bathroom in exchange for grocery money.

What he wasn’t expecting, though, was to see one of those monsters up on the _victim board_.

“Fifty-three-year-old Daryl Dawes from Las Vegas, Nevada, birthplace of our dear boy wonder, was found yesterday evening,” Garcia gestured with a laser pointer to the projected image of a scraggly man with dark hair, and Spencer’s stomach twisted violently into knots. “Stabbed to death in the bathroom of a Vegas club with, ahem, some _parts_ missing. This comes on the heels of two other men in the exact same circumstance in the weeks prior—”

One of the men of Spencer’s nightmares had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest, the browning blood soaked into a damp white wife-beater, his filthy jeans still unbuttoned and unzipped, revealing a bloody stump that had previously been the man’s penis.

Bile burned at the back of his throat, and whatever the team was saying around him was soon tuned out in favor of his wretched mind unpacking the memories that had _previously_ been tucked away and throwing him headfirst into them.

_Daryl Dawes smelled like tobacco smoke, body odor, and fast food grease._

_It turned Spencer’s stomach just_ thinking _about him, but he’d agreed to fifty dollars if he could take Spencer to the handicapped stall with the broken door in the bar bathroom for a blowjob, and he and his mother were presently surviving on lukewarm tap water and stale saltines, so he didn’t really have much of a choice. Fifty dollars was enough for a loaf of bread, maybe some lunch meat and cheese, maybe even some fruit if he were really lucky, and Spencer’s stomach rumbled just at the thought._

 _Daryl Dawes_ had _to have been forty years old, with greasy hands where they were fisted in Spencer’s hair, and Spencer Reid wanted to be anywhere else in the world than on his knees in a filthy, grimy stall with a disgusting man’s equally disgusting dick down his throat and the nauseating scent of unwashed flesh in his nose._

_“What’s going on in here?” a dark voice echoed off the tiled walls, and Spencer tried to pull away from Dawes with a panicked whine, but dirty fingers just tightened in the tangles of his hair as he choked. The man had the audacity to moan as Spencer sputtered, as he fought to breathe, and tears slipped down his cheeks._

_“You’ve found us a whore, Dawes?” the same dark voice chuckled as the door swung open and Spencer’s stomach rioted, tears streaming down his cheeks, fingernails scrabbling helplessly at the man’s denim-clad thighs as he tried to escape, but Dawes was pulling locks of hair out of his scalp and everything was too much, too loud, the world felt like sandpaper on Spencer’s whole being, and then his mouth was flooded with cum that tasted like the tile floor Spencer was kneeling on and he wasn’t actively being choked anymore._

_He scrabbled backwards the moment Dawes’ grip lessened on his hair, retching as he tried to clear the taste from his mouth._ Anything _was better than that, even literal vomit, and Spencer fought to breathe as he heaved._

_“Clearly not a very good one,” a second, nasally voice tsked unhappily, and Spencer could hear Dawes’ fly zip as he chuckled._

_“Nah, Johnny, he’s good. He’ll be good for us,” Dawes leaned menacingly over Spencer’s shoulder, gripping a fistful of his hair, and tilting his head backward from the toilet basin to make eye contact. Spencer fought a whimper as the man aggravated his already sore scalp, and clenched his eyes shut so it would be easier to pretend he was somewhere else, not underneath flickering fluorescent lights, not covered in the bodily fluids of a man who was old enough to be his dad, not crying as he heaved over an unwashed toilet in a shady nightclub. “He’ll do anything you want without fighting even a little, so long as you leave him a couple of twenties.”_

“Wheels up in twenty,” Hotch announced, and the team lurched from their seats, chattering about solving the case early so they could hit up the Vegas strip casinos. Spencer realized he was pulling at his own hair, anxiously combing his fingers through it like he was trying to remind himself he was clean, he wasn’t there anymore, the only hands who touched him were his.

Spencer flinched when Hotch slipped into Morgan’s abandoned seat, whiskey-brown eyes fixated on him, and Spencer felt like some sort of circus freak. He felt exposed, naked, being dressed down in front of his boss like this, and he flinched again when Hotch went to touch his shoulder.

“Reid, are you alright?” Hotch asked lowly, shoulders hunched toward him. Spencer knew it was in an effort to make him seem less intimidating, less dangerous. Spencer didn’t like lies.

“Fine, sir,” Spencer leapt to his feet, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and gripped the familiar leather in his hand as he bolted in the most professional manner possible.

He could feel Hotch’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

He could feel the itch of ghastly hands touching him, phantom whispers in his ears, and he ran.

How many times before had he wanted so desperately to flee, but had been pinned in place by responsibility, by hopelessness? He ran now, fleeing like he was being chased by phantom menaces.

Was it really Hotch he was afraid of being chased by? Or was it the men in his nightmares he himself was too sickly similar to? Was it himself that he was afraid of, afraid of the boiling resentment and aggression festering in his heart?

Spencer was silent the entire plane ride to Las Vegas, his body restless and mind turbulent, unwanted memories and analyzation of Dawes’ photograph wrestling one another for priority.

If the team noticed, they didn’t say anything. They continued as normal, minus his input, offering up theories that ranged from a sexual sadist to a jealous wife who caught him cheating and took it out on his buddies who encouraged him.

 _The stall._ It was the stall, in O’Leary’s, there was something about it that itched in the back of his brain, repeatedly drowned out and ignored in favor of trying to push away a festering memory. Spencer leaned over his own thighs, scratching through his hair, and squeezing his eyes shut as he pleaded with his brain to just _work_.

It was The Stall. It was the stall men always took prostitutes to for a quickie. It had a broken door that never got fixed because others liked to watch without having to pay. It was a risky place to take a customer to because, sometimes, others would want to join in and the working girls and boys had no defense, left vulnerable with someone’s dick down their throat. Spencer knew from firsthand experience, and he fought to shake the thought out of his brain.

There were the two sides of Spencer Reid fighting inside his head.

One of them, the brilliant Doctor Reid whose _job it was_ to catch the person responsible for brutally attacking these horrible men, put them away for murder, punish them for harming others. And then, there was Penny, who cheered at the idea of the men who’d harmed him receiving a taste of their own medicine, who thought with snapping, bloody teeth and a wicked tongue, who longed to purposely throw a wrench in the investigation to let this vigilante go on undeterred.

Vigilante. The Stall. _Vigilante_.

The thought struck a chord inside of him, and Spencer lurched straight up in his seat, interrupting the boisterous conversation between Morgan and Rossi.

“The-the men, they were _all_ found in handicapped stalls, stabbed?” Spencer leaned over the armrest, eyes fixated on Garcia’s image on the screen.

 _“Yeah, boy wonder. But all in the same stall, same bathroom, same place. Management at O’Leary’s clearly doesn’t really think that murder is a reason to close up a club,”_ Garcia’s nose wrinkled, but Spencer’s brain was whirling.

“O’Leary’s,” he breathed, cupping his face in his hands as his leg bounced and he tried to conjure up a list of others who Dawes and his friends were customers of. “Run a list of Dawes’ known associates.”

“You onto somethin’ there, pretty boy?” Morgan leaned forward in his seat in interested, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise. Spencer hadn’t quite noticed everyone’s eyes on him, the still quiet of the jet, because his head was plenty loud enough to make up for it.

 _“All the other victims, Frank Jones, and Elton Davis, they all ping in as buddies with Dawes, along with this guy Elias Johnson,”_ Garcia chirped, before her mouth turned into a deep frown. _“It looks like all these guys were arrested for solicitation, multiple times. Oh, and not just any solicitation, solicitation of a minor.”_

“So, the victims were seedy?” Rossi looked over his shoulder at Spencer, who was still bouncing his leg, deep in thought. “That’s certainly a start. There’s plenty of people who’d want to take out some seedy characters.”

The team bounced off that, positing that the unsub was an angry parent, maybe somebody who’d been abused as a kid, maybe a prostitute themselves.

The plane landed before Spencer really had sorted out the tangled thoughts and theories bunched up inside of his head, and he had been whisked to the Las Vegas Police Department and bustled into a conference room before his mind miles away finally caught up to him.

 _Handicapped stalls._ Men lurking around the edges of the dance floor, eyes fixated on working girls and boys like salivating wolves. Working boys, flashes of neon lights and stale breath, pounding bass rattling your bones and the very walls around you.

Working boys.

Handicapped stalls in grimy bathrooms, bass you could feel battering your soul.

 _Jamie_.

A crooked, feral smile, dark freckles tossed across a button nose, dark brown eyes of a ghost hidden behind a curtain of greasy brown curls.

Spencer Reid, but about ten years younger.

_“Don’t you worry ‘bout me, Penny, Mama Cherry’ll keep me safe when you’re gone. You go and be a big bad FBI agent, and I’ll tell the customers not to mess with me or Benny, or my big brother will come arrest ‘em,” Jamie laughed, throwing his head back, lamplights casting warm light across gaunt cheekbones. The t-shirt baring one freckled shoulder covered in bruised bites was a sharp contrast to the innocence of his sneakered feet kicking joyfully back and forth from atop the brick wall that he sat on._

_“We both know you won’t do that,” Spencer sighed tiredly, and Jamie had the decency to crack a smile, though it didn’t meet his eyes._

_“No, I won’t,” Jamie shrugged, and cast his eyes back to the sky. “Scare ‘em all away, and my mama needs the money, and I can’t let Benny do this.”_

_“I’ll send some, from DC,” Spencer rocked back and forth on his heels, eyes to the sky. “I’ll send it to Mama Cherry, so she can make sure you both have food, at least. Maybe it’ll help keep Benny off the streets.”_

_“Don’ worry about us, Penny,” Jamie hummed, his voice cracking. “Street kids are like cockroaches; you can’t kill us.”_

But they had.

Jamie had been twelve when he left, but he was eighteen when Spencer’s phone rang, Mama Cherry sobbing inconsolably, telling him that Jamie had been gang-raped and killed in that damn handicapped stall at O’Leary’s, just a few weeks ago. Spencer’s heart had broken inside his chest, and he’d screamed his voice hoarse as he sent every breakable item in his apartment crashing to the floor as he sobbed and clawed at his hair, his face, his arms. He swore that God had abandoned him then, abandoned every cockroach under the stars, and he went to the bar and came home with bruised knuckles and blood spatter dancing across his cheekbones in a macabre mimicry of Jamie’s freckles.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Spencer rubbed his knuckles into his eyes and fumbled into his pockets for his phone, pacing in front of the whiteboard as his sorrow threatened to choke him. He didn’t feel the weight of the team’s glances at him as he dialed Garcia’s number from memory. “Did any of the victims have any recent solicitation charges?”

 _“Solicitation of a minor a couple weeks ago, and a note of a fistfight between Dawes and a prostitute after that, but all the charges were dropped, if that helps?”_ Garcia’s voice was curious, but Spencer was restless, Spencer was a whirlwind trapped in the bones of a broken man. _“187, what—”_

But he was already off, pulling on his jacket, throwing his scarf over his shoulder, his throat tightening.

There were no coincidences, no accidents, and certainly not when it came down to this block of the Vegas strip.

“Where are you going, Reid?” Hotch stepped into the doorframe, but Spencer shook with frustration.

“I-I’ve got a lead, I need to find the prostitute Dawes fought with,” Spencer was jittery, rocking in place as his fingers danced in front of him.

“Why don’t you take Morgan or Rossi with you?”

“Can’t,” Spencer bit out, dodging Hotch and slipping out behind him. “Give me three hours.”

And off he went, sneakers slapping familiar pavement as darkness grew around him and the world returned to a semblance of something Spencer knew. O’Leary’s seedy underbelly sprouted with the dying sun, tired faces in low-cut shirts and skin-tight short shorts peeking out at him, eyes following him as he rounded the corner to a dingy parking lot. And there under the lamplight, was a boy with a crooked smile, whirlwind brown curls, and haunted dark eyes that spoke of seeing too much, kicking his sneakered feet back and forth atop a brick wall, like a snapshot in time.

 _Ben_.

Not Jamie, but close enough to make the guilt tighten his throat like a noose.

“Penny?” Ben’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline, hopping off the brick wall to meet him halfway. The boy was all sharp bones and gaunt cheeks underhand, but he hugged the taller man fiercely, a wary smile on his face when he pulled away. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been around these parts.”

“I know,” Spencer’s heart twisted with guilt, with anger at himself for letting down this boy who was the only person left on this planet close enough to be considered a brother. “I’m sorry, Benny.”

“Just Ben, Penny,” Ben insisted, bracing himself against the brick wall by his elbows to tilt his head back and look at the stars. “It’s just Ben now.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Ben,” Spencer promised, though they both knew the promise was sour in the crisp night air. “I need to talk to Cherry, then I’ll make it up to you.”

“What do you want to talk to Mama for?” Ben asked, his voice guarded and face suddenly impassive.

“I think she might know something that’ll help the murder investigation I’m working on,” Spencer explained, watching Ben’s face contort into fear, into anxiety, before they fell flat again. “Mama did something, didn’t she?”

“Penny,” Ben’s voice was low, his fingers flexing against the brick wall as he tried to school his face into a mask of indifference. Spencer’s stomach plummeted to his feet, and the world swirled around him.

“Ben, I can’t do anything for Mama Cherry if I don’t know where she is,” Spencer pleaded, but Ben closed his eyes, controlling his breathing with purpose, and Spencer knew down inside he wasn’t going to get anything out of him.

“Shit, man, go back to the fuckin’ bar, then, and see if she’s there. You know just as well as I do that all us whores spend all our time there,” Ben bit out, his eyes blazing when he met Spencer’s.

“If-if you think of anything, here’s my number,” Spencer offered him a business card, but Ben simply balled it up in bony hands and sent it bouncing to the pavement below.

“I don’t need your fuckin’ handouts, _Spencer Reid_ ,” Ben ground out, and tilted his head back up to look at the stars. Spencer turned then, stuffing his shaking hands in his pockets as he stalked towards the bar, and he wonders idly if they’re shaking because he’s anxious, or because he’s furious.

The way Spencer instinctively falls back on well-worn treads in his mind when he enters O’Leary’s for the first time since he left should surprise him, but it doesn’t. 

The girls on the corner Spencer stops to speak to have the same tired, sorrowful eyes as different girls did in a different time, the johns prowling in their cars shout the same obscenities, the oppressive night air still feels just as heavy on his shoulders as it did years ago. 

The raggedy old bar is a place where time stands still, and entering it sends Spencer back into the body of a younger boy with fresher wounds.

The tables are the same, high, circular, scuffed, with tall stools, the bartender is the same white man with slicked-back hair and a sorrowful face, the customer’s eyes still full of the same gleaming hunger, the working girls and boys still painfully thin and young where they try to attract the less greasy men.

It’s the fact that he doesn’t know their names anymore that really shows him how much time has passed since he was one of them.

Spencer sidles up to a woman with hawk eyes and neat cornrows, surveying the throng of people dancing filthily before her, and leans against the tabletop that she’s perched on, her legs crossed primly as she toys with one braid, barely sparing him a glance.

“Don’t go barkin’ up my tree, mister,” she says, popping a bright pink bubble as she points towards a thin boy in short shorts and a loose tank top who’s grinding on a man with a sneer. “Think Dante will be more your style.”

“I’m looking for Mama Cherry,” Spencer responds, trying to swallow the disgust rising in his throat.

She turns to really look at him, then, her dark eyes roaming over him, taking in the hastily tied tie, the starched button-down tucked into neat pants.

“You a cop?” she asks, and he has the decency to nod once, though she stiffens immediately, pulling away from him.

“I’m with the behavioral analysis unit,” he defends, passing over his badge at once. She takes it, scanning it with sharp eyes before her face splits into a lopsided smile.

“Shit, you’re Mama’s Lucky Penny!” she passes the badge back, her eyes alight with grudging respect. “She tells us all about you all the time. She had some business to tend to, told Benny where she was goin’, so he can probably take you to see her.”

“Where can I find him?” Spencer’s heart races, his mind already running the possibilities of where the boy could have gone since the conversation on the brick wall just an hour prior. When she points towards that damned bathroom, he curses, thanks her, and takes off, panic rising unbidden into his throat.

Something about this just feels _wrong_.

Something about this was cursed from the beginning.

He shouldn’t have come here, to this bar, to this strip, to _Las Vegas_.

And he wasn’t wrong, though he wished he were.

Spencer walks into that fucking gritty bathroom to the sight of a gruesome man relentlessly pounding into the emaciated body of a boy blue in the face, the man moaning as he tightens his massive hands around Ben’s windpipe, the boy’s hands scrabbling uselessly against his knuckles.

Spencer can’t think, can’t breathe, doesn’t even realize he’s launching himself at Elias Johnson, the final monster from his nightmares, until his knuckles meet the man’s eye.

Some part of him registers the man’s anger, his shock, the feeling of his nose bursting into a wave of blood under his knuckles, the snapping of his own teeth as he becomes something vengeful, and he surges forward to slam the back of Johnson’s head against the gritty tile wall, his own pianist’s fingers gripping him by the throat in a vile mimicry of all the times he’d choked Spencer himself to unconsciousness.

“How does it feel, baby boy?” Spencer snaps in his face, teeth bared, his voice something dark as night as he watches Johnson’s eyes widen, tears slipping down bruising cheeks. He can remember every fetid thing Johnson and his men had branded into his skin with bruises as they painted his insides, can imagine with nauseating clarity the pain those boys felt as they died brutally in this very stall. “I bet you love it, little whore, _cry for me_.”

He feels like an animal, all lashing, boiling rage when Hotch and Morgan storm into the bathroom and pull him off of Johnson’s still body, still fighting them before he even recognizes who they are, before his mind returns to his body and realizes that Johnson’s eyes had long since slipped shut, and Ben is cowering in the corner, his hand clamped over his mouth as he tries not to vomit.

“Reid! Reid, what the hell, man?” Morgan’s hands are unrelenting where they burn his skin, and he wonders distantly if this is what God feels like, like adrenaline soaring through your veins, sending you higher than any drug could, your own hands capable of carving something out of nothing, of bringing life and taking it away like it’s meaningless.

Spencer Reid has brought life into the world, sustained it, fought for it, and has snuffed it out with his own bare hands just as easily, without a second thought.

Even now, as Morgan tries to force him to explain himself and Hotch calls paramedics to come pick up Johnson’s rapidly cooling body, he finds himself not regretting it an ounce.

Johnson was going to kill Ben in one of the most excruciating ways possible, and Spencer is not a good man. Spencer is a being of unfathomable, remorseless rage, and he wonders, his mind distant from his body as Hotch gently guides him into an SUV, if he ever _was_ a good man. If he ever had a _chance_ to be a good man.

He thinks that, even if he was good, was holy, Johnson deserved to be dead more than Spencer deserved to go to heaven.


End file.
